


I Like Your Beard

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Blow Jobs, Dowling Era, Established Relationship, I officially love that tag, M/M, Mr. Harrison/Mr. Cortese, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: "Did something happen? With hell?""They're on my case about this, angel. I don't know if we should be seen together outside the house. At least not for a while."Aziraphale's stomach jumps at the confession but not with fear. It's silly but he can't help but feel a remarkable amount of gratitude for how much Crowley cares. How much Crowley loves him.He hesitates but he knows what he wants. "And inside the house?"**In which Aziraphale is brave.And they both have beards.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 661





	I Like Your Beard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naniiebim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naniiebim/gifts).



> written for [this art](https://naniiebimworks.tumblr.com/post/627635208233041920/if-anyone-will-write-a-sexy-fic-with-these-two-as) by naniiebim 
> 
> title from your love is my drug by kesha
> 
> i'm here for the beards

“So, what are your evening plans, Mr. Harrison?” Aziraphale asks in his best Welsh accent, glancing up from his desk where he has finally packed away all his materials for the day.

Crowley finishes zipping his bag shut and slings it over his shoulder. He looks particularly handsome in this  _ tutor _ role. He’s grown out a neat beard and trimmed his previously long hair. He’d groaned something awful about having to cut off his shoulder-length tresses but Aziraphale thinks he likes the look of the thing if the way he fiddles with his forelock is any indication.

“Oh, it’s Friday. Probably stay in and watch a film,” Crowley answers. He’s switched from his nanny brogue to a crisp RP that makes Aziraphale’s insides tremble. It’s so different from his usual lazy cadence and paired with the well-tailored three-piece suit and his impeccable grooming, well, suffice it to say, Aziraphale has been having some very particular fantasies.

"That sounds like a nice evening," Aziraphale says and he feels daring. It's just for a moment. It's the same daring he felt after the Bastille, after the Great Exhibition, after that night not three years ago that had resulted in Crowley's booted feet wrapped around his waist, lipstick smeared across both their mouths. Aziraphale has always had particular trouble resisting Crowley when he's recently changed his appearance. 

And now Crowley looks scrumptious and Aziraphale is feeling brave so he says, "Perhaps we could go to a pub. Get a drink together. It would be nice to get to know each other if we’re going to be working together."

They fall into step in the wide hallways of the Dowling estate. Aziraphale knows there are two hired cars provided by the Dowlings waiting in the drive to take them to their respective destinations. There's no reason they can't end up in the same place.

Aziraphale has offered to get a drink. It should be innocuous. It could be. But between them, an invitation extended by Aziraphale almost always means something. Crowley knows it. Aziraphale knows it.

The thing about Aziraphale’s bravery is that it’s entirely predicated upon the fact that Crowley always accepts when he asks. They both know what’s at stake. Crowley’s a bit more willing to take a risk than Aziraphale is, but he won’t press or cajole. It’s up to Aziraphale to offer. And Crowley always accepts.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Crowley says. 

Aziraphale freezes. He can't believe what he's hearing. It’s such a shock to Aziraphale's system that before he can really think it through he's dragged Crowley into the nearest room and shut the door behind them.

It turns out to be a rather posh bathroom, almost larger than Aziraphale's bedroom at home. He'd make a comment about needless luxury if he were not entirely focused on what the heaven has just happened.

"Crowley, are you alright?" Aziraphale asks, accent dropping. It makes more sense for Crowley to be ill than for him to turn down a very obvious proposition.

"Mr. Harrison, not Crowley," Crowley insists, knocking Aziraphale hand away where it's still held tight around his upper arm. 

With sudden clarity, Aziraphale realizes the most likely cause of this behavior and some of his hurt dissipates. "Did something happen? With hell?"

Crowley's nostrils flare, the movement allowing his glasses to slip slightly down his face. "They're on my case about this, angel. I don't know if we should be seen together outside the house. At least not for a while."

Aziraphale's stomach jumps at the confession but not with fear. It's silly but he can't help but feel a remarkable amount of gratitude for how much Crowley cares. How much Crowley loves him.

He hesitates but he knows what he wants.  "And inside the house?" 

"I don't see how we can avoid it. Not with our current plan."

Fisting his hands in Crowley's waistcoat, Aziraphale surges forward into their first kiss in three years. It feels phenomenal to have Crowley's mouth under his again and the pleasure of that sound in the back of Crowley's throat thrills him to pieces.

Crowley's hands seek his waist and the gesture is so familiar that Aziraphale melts into him, their combined weight falling against the bathroom counter as he slips his arms around Crowley's neck. He's never kissed Crowley when he's had facial hair and the way it catches and scrapes against his own beard tantalizes him.

Crowley breaks away, glasses askew. "Angel, are you sure you want--"

"Please," Aziraphale says with a scoff. "I've been working beside you all week. These suits have been driving me to distraction."

_ "My  _ suits?" Crowley replies incredulously. "You've been rolling up your sleeves like a little tart putting on a show."

Aziraphale hadn't actually been doing that on purpose, but he makes a note to do it more.

Done talking, Aziraphale kisses Crowley once, pulling away when he tries to deepen the kiss and drops to his knees. 

"I'd like to fellate you."

Crowley tosses aside his glasses with an exasperated growl. "One day I'll get you to say blow job like a normal person."

Aziraphale nuzzles the hardening line of his cock in his trousers and waits for permission. A hand sinks into his hair, soft, gentle, yet guiding. He just has to be patient. Crowley will cave soon if the trembling in his thighs is anything to go by.

"Ugh, fine, yes.  _ Fellate  _ me."

Feeling very proud of himself, Aziraphale undoes Crowley's belt—snakeskin because his serpent thinks he is very funny—and his fly. His tight black briefs are silky under his palm when he runs his hand over Crowley's cock. Feeling emboldened by Crowley's gasps and the tightening hand in his hair, Aziraphale presses an open mouthed kiss to the fabric, wet and lewd. 

He licks and sucks until the fabric is dripping and Crowley is swearing. Hooking his fingers in the elastic, he tugs down Crowley's pants and smirks when he sees how hard he is, red and straining against his belly. Aziraphale loves Crowley's cock. Perhaps a strange thing to think. But he loves the particular weight of it, the way it curves slightly to the left, how sensitive he is at the base. But most of all, Aziraphale loves the way he tastes.

Wasting no time—he wastes enough—Aziraphale takes him in his mouth. Crowley leaves his hand in his hair but with no pressure, letting Aziraphale run the show. Aziraphale glances up at Crowley through his lashes and his gut twists with arousal. The demon’s head is tipped back, mouth slightly open as he gasps with pleasure. His tie has loosed somehow, revealing the shadow of Adam's apple. Aziraphale has always found it somewhat ironic that he's so obsessed with that particular bit of Crowley's body. But the humans named it so Crowley can hardly take credit for the cosmic joke.

Aziraphale tongues his foreskin and works him with his hand, determined. He wants to take Crowley with his mouth. He wants to feel the hot gush of his spend down his throat, bitter and oddly human.

Intimate.

"Ah, angel," Crowley says between short gasps for air. Then he does tug on Aziraphale's hair, trying to pull him off. "I'm gonna—do you want—"

Aziraphale hums and bobs his head.

Crowley's other hand falls to his hair. He groans, spine curling unnaturally forward as he comes, body shaking. Aziraphale swallows around him. He relishes the heat. 

Finally, satisfied with his work, he tucks Crowley away and stands, surprised when Crowley yanks him into a deep kiss without preamble. It makes his toes curl.

"What about you?" Crowley asks, fingers drifting over the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat and coming to pause above his trousers. 

Aziraphale feels brave for the second time that evening. The world might end in five years. What’s the point of all this if he’s held himself back for so long?

"I want to do this again."

Crowley's hand goes flat against his belly, a barely there tremor in his wrist. "Not a one off?"

"Darling, this has never been a one off," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's hand and threading their fingers together.

"Oh," Crowley says. His eyes are wide.

Aziraphale kisses his cheek. "You know, I think this beard is rather nice. Would you consider keeping it?"

"Fuck no," Crowley says as Aziraphale opens the door. "Far too itchy. And the maintenance is hell. Er, you know what I mean."

"I most certainly do," Aziraphale says, scraping his knuckles through his own beard. He's fairly certain the thing looks ghastly on his round face.

"What about you?" Crowley says, knocking their elbows together as they descend the main stairs. He's put back on his accent and Aziraphale really is in love with him.

"Most definitely not," Aziraphale says. Crowley opens the door for him and they pass through.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I like it," Crowley says.

As expected, the cars are there, sleek and black and waiting. 

"Thats—" Aziraphale looks at him one final time. The sunset brings out the russet in his hair, the golden hue of his skin. "Thank you," he settles on, feeling tongue tied.

"Still want to do this again?" Crowley asks, hand hesitating on the door to the car that will drive him god knows where. 

Aziraphale pauses with his own door open. "Monday?"

Crowley grins, relief flooding the tight line of his slim shoulders. "Monday."

"Have a good weekend, Mr. Harrison."

"You too, Mr. Cortese."

The doors shut. 

Monday.


End file.
